


Place your bets

by cobain_cleopatra



Series: Little Crow Oneshots [8]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Dishonored AU, Feodor is so done, Fluff, Gambling, Grumpy Daud, Humor, M/M, Sexual Tension, Snarky Corvo, the Whalers make a bet, whaler Corvo, younger Corvo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9638975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobain_cleopatra/pseuds/cobain_cleopatra
Summary: The Whalers are a gambling crowd. Feodor doesn't wish to take part in this particular bet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during part 3 of Little Crow.

Feodor saw the grin. He’d known Finn long enough to discern the expression; a playful blend of realisation and glee. He was up to _something._

“Stop it.”

Finn whipped to face him, eyes big and blue and all innocence. “Stop what? What am I doing?”

Feodor was not a fool. He heard the mischief in the young Whaler’s voice, the way the words had lilted higher and higher in an attempt to feign ignorance. “Whatever you’re scheming or debating or thinking about, stop it. I know that look.”

“You don’t know shit, Fee.”

“Language.”

Finn waved him off and turned back to examine whatever had so caught his interest.

Feodor followed the novice’s rapt gaze across the kitchen. To Daud’s table, where their leader sat beside his Second, and opposite Arden and Corvo. Thomas was scoffing the food from his plate and from those around it, as per usual; the man was ravenous after he’d forgotten to eat. Arden was slouched back lazily in his chair, picking at his teeth and looking all-around uninterested. Corvo seemed intent on staring down at the floor. The Whaler looked a little red in the face. Perhaps Mont had missed something while checking him over–

_Ah._

Feodor’s eyes travelled down to Daud and Corvo’s legs, which were practically crossed over one another beneath the table. Feodor cocked his head, taking in the sight. It was all innocent enough on the surface, but at the same time... strangely intimate. He didn’t second guess it as the source of Finn’s attention.

“It’s rude to stare, Finn,” he eventually reminded the novice. He decided to dismiss the scene entirely – it was none of his business, anyway – in favour of taking a sip of his tea.

“Bet you twenty coin they fuck by Friday.”

The tea became lodged in his throat, and Feodor gave a choked cough to loosen his airways. He stared at the novice once he’d regained his composure. “I beg your pardon?”

Finn fixed him with a look that rivalled Rulfio’s whenever a stupid question was asked. “You can’t tell me you don’t see that.” The Whaler swept a hand in Daud and Corvo’s direction. “Twenty coin,” he repeated. “By Friday.”

“You can’t be serious.” Feodor surveyed the scene again. Daud, expression stern, Corvo avoiding eye contact, his features set in a glare. All as normal, apart from the contact happening below the safety of the table. Contact that, Feodor was convinced, was either accidental or unnoticed by both. This was _Daud,_ after all. “You’re not serious.”

“You need your eyes checked, Fee. They’ve got it bad.”

“My eyes are perfectly fine, thank you,” Feodor bit back tersely. “If anything needs checking, it’s that filthy mind of yours.”

Finn snatched Feodor’s mug and took a confident sip of tea. “I’m telling you,” he affirmed, trying not to grimace at the lack of sugar in the drink. “By Friday.”

~ ~ ~

“Two Towers! Read them and weep, gentlemen– Argh!” Jordan batted Galia away and rubbed at his arm, the victim of a well-placed punch. “Sorry, sorry. Gentlemen _and lady.”_

“Better,” Galia grumbled, sliding her coin into Jordan’s pile.

The rest of the group begrudgingly did the same, and Jordan scooped up the winnings as he chattered on. “Another round? Another round, c’mon, I’m feeling good. I’ve got one more in me, I know it.”

“‘Cause you’ve got all the coin, you cheating mudlark,” Quinn pointed out, gesturing to the empty space in front of him. “I’m out. I’ll deal though.” He plucked the deck from Feodor’s hands. “Who’s in?”

“I’m in,” Galia said, glaring at the cards as though she could get the winning hand through willpower alone.

“Why not. Deal me in,” Feodor answered. He still had a fair sized collection of spoils.

“And me.” Arden smacked the table in front of Jordan, making the coins jingle together. “Someone’s gotta take this fucker down a peg or two.”

“What about you, Jen, you in?”

A soft snore came in reply, and Feodor poked the side of Jenkins’ head. It lolled, then settled once more. “I’d say that’s a resounding no.”

“Probably for the best,” Quinn answered, dealing the last set. “He’s shittier than me at this.”

They played in near silence, speaking only to raise or fold against each other’s bets. Seeing as Thomas had brought to light that the bridge outside was a strong breeze away from collapsing, Daud had finally banned them from playing cards within a hundred feet of it. Feodor was relieved, truth be told; the flood waters had eroded most of the stone, and the structure was more cracks than bridge now. He had suggested they move to the archive room instead, just above the training room.

It was certainly warmer inside, and as a result, this must have been the most rounds they’d ever played in a night; the candles lighting the room had melted down to almost nothing.

Eventually, only Jordan and Feodor were left. Arden was stewing after giving up in the last round, and Galia had folded within the first few minutes; Feodor was now fearing that she’d seen something he hadn’t. But he was _almost_ certain Jordan was bluffing.

“Ah... I’ll match you,” Jordan decided after a few moments, flicking one last coin into the pile they’d bid. “So what have you got, Fee?”

“No, I insist.” He hoped his apprehension sounded like confidence. “After you.”

Jordan grinned, then placed down his hand. “Captain’s Quarters.”

Feodor stared at his pair of Towers, gave a sigh, and simply tossed them at the deck. “Shit.”

The others groaned in unison with Jordan’s victory whoop. He was silenced soon enough when Quinn unlaced his boot and chucked it at his head, and then the after-game squabbling commenced. By Feodor’s account, Arden was precisely a minute away from lunging at Jordan’s throat, when Galia grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

“Shush– _Guys,_ shush, all of you.”

They stilled, heads turning to the closest window. There were barks and growls coming from outside.

“Think the hounds got loose again.”

“How the Void do they keep getting out?”

“I swear Andrei barricaded the cages this time.”

“Aye, he did, but the shits are stubborn.”

“Shut it,” Galia urged. There were muffled voices audible among the wolfhound’s snarls. “Open the window up, Arden.”

The Whaler pulled the pane wider, and they followed Galia’s lead of crowding around the window to get a look at whatever was happening on the walkways below.

Feodor spotted the two hounds first, running back and forth across the length of the buildings; going by the colours, it was Kallisarr and Esma. He was about to ask if they should let Andrei know the beasts had broken free again, when he found the source of the voices. Corvo was perched at the edge of one of the walkways, another hound – Ox, Feodor assumed by the creature’s bulk – sprawled out across his lap. Idly scratching the hound’s head, Daud was listening attentively to whatever it was Corvo was talking about.

They were sat far too close together, their heads bowed towards one another and their knees almost brushing. Feodor found himself averting his gaze as the pair spoke below. Their conversation was quiet enough to remain unheard, not that that was stopping Galia; the Whaler was craning over the window pane to listen, only retreating back inside once Jordan warned her she was about to topple out.

They followed her lead once again, and Arden shut and bolted the window.

“Well, that explains why Attano didn't join us. What do you know,” Galia grinned at Jordan, as they all retook their respective seats. “Looks like I’m going to win my coin back, after all.”

“Nah, no way it’ll be as soon as Thursday,” Jordan said, though he cast a slightly concerned look back outside.

“Did you not see that out there? I’m telling you, on Thursday your coin’s as good as mine again.”

“Rinaldo owes me fifty, in that case,” Quinn said, tugging his earlier cast off boot back on.

“Cheap bastards. I bet Yuri and Vladko ninety coin that it’ll be Friday.”

“Vladko owes me, too,” Jordan added, “If it happens any time between Saturday and Sunday.”

“Idiots,” Galia sighed, folding her arms smugly. “They won’t last that long. By Thursday, I'm certain”

Feodor’s frown became deeper and deeper as the argument continued, and he finally held out a hand to stop them. “What, by the Outsider, are you all on about?”

Galia shot him a look that rivalled both Finn’s and Rulfio’s in sensing idiocy. “When Attano and the boss will finally get down to it. Obviously.” Seeing his bemused expression, she shook her head, “What, you haven’t made a bet already? Better place it quick if you haven't, we’ve only got a few more days at most.”

“Of course I haven’t!" Feodor spluttered. "Why on earth would I bet on that? Have you been talking to Finn?”

Jordan perked up at the mention. “Oh, I haven’t actually made a bet with Finn yet. What day did he go for?”

Feodor gaped while the group discussed amongst themselves which day would be smartest to bet against Finn. He refused to be roped into the conversation, no matter how much Galia prodded him. He eventually sank down in his seat, grateful to have Jenkins’ snores to drown out the madness around him.

“At least you’re not involved in this anarchy,” he said to his dozing companion.

“Bet fifty for Saturday,” Jenkins murmured, and slept on.

~ ~ ~

Feodor’s back hit the floor, and a knee drove itself down into his chest, keeping him in place.

“Your footwork’s sloppy, Arden,” Rulfio said from the sidelines of the training room, without looking up from his book. “Not that that’s anything new,” he added.

Arden removed his knee and stood straight, granting Feodor a hand to help him to his feet. “Ain’t left the base in a week, ain’t been out fightin’ since the raid,” the Whaler griped to himself, ignoring Rulfio’s comment. “When we gonna see some action? Feel like I’m going bleedin’ mad.”

“Why do you think I’m letting you throw me around?” Feodor pointed out. “We can’t have you sneaking out to the Distillery District every time you become bored.” He shuddered at the memory of the last time Arden had gotten restless, and the brawl with Bottle Street that had followed. Feodor imagined the Watch was still clearing up after him, even all these months later.

The two began to fight again, hand to hand, simply working some of the agitation from their minds. Feodor had to admit, he sympathised with Arden; it wasn’t pleasant, men of their nature being grounded to one place for so long. But Daud’s orders had been clear. Until the time came to infiltrate Coldridge and rescue Lizzy Stride, no one was to leave Rudshore and risk another run in with the witches.

Arden feigned left, then caught Feodor on his shoulder, staggering him. He groaned when Feodor once again took up a defensive stance and made no move to attack.

“Hit back, you shite,” the Whaler taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Asked you for a fight, not to tiptoe around me like some coy noble girl.”

Feodor didn’t rise to the slur. He was a tactician, not a fighter. He knew a real scuffle with Arden would land him with sore joints and aching bruises for days to come. “You asked me to train with you, not beat you bloody.”

“It’s one and the same to him,” Rulfio interjected, turning a page. “Why do you think I’ve never let him train the new recruits. They’d be black and blue for weeks.”

“It’d do ‘em some good. Toughen ‘em up.”

“I’m not letting you near them.” Rulfio peered at Arden from behind his book. “Poor pups are already frightened of you.”

Feodor took in Arden’s broad shoulders and tattooed arms, the bulging muscles beneath, and didn’t find the remark hard to believe.

“Want to keep fighting?” Feodor asked, distracting Arden from sneering Rulfio’s way.

“Not if you ain’t gonna fight proper,” the Whaler grumbled.

“Go and find Jenkins,” Rulfio suggested. “Little shit’s always asking for a fight.”

“Jen’s helping at the kennels.”

Feodor jumped at the new voice, finding Corvo leaning by the door. The man never seemed to make a sound.

“Evening,” he greeted him. It was a more than welcome sight, seeing Corvo back around the Chamber after escaping Holger Square. Out of respect, Feodor tried not to let his eyes stray to the man's left hand; Daud had asked them not to hassle him about the Outsider’s mark, and Daud’s word was law.

Corvo gave him a short nod, then turned to Arden. “Spar with me,” he offered.

“Attano,” Arden grinned, cracking his knuckles. “No powers, no weapons. Been too fuckin’ long since we did this–”

A book collided with his head, then _thunked_ to the floor.

“Absolutely not.” Rulfio’s eyes were narrowed testily. “You’re pent up and built like a brick shithouse,” he gestured to Arden, who was rubbing the side of his head, and then to Corvo, “and you’ve been dead for a week–”

“Wasn’t dead.”

“You’re in no condition to fight, and especially not with him,” Rulfio continued, ignoring the interruption. He frowned at the dark burn marks on Corvo’s jaw. “If it were up to me, you’d still be in the infirmary.”

“I count my blessings it’s not up to you, then.”

Feodor glanced between Rulfio’s scowl and Corvo’s dry smile. He swiftly backed off when Arden took a swing without warning, which Corvo barely avoided. Rulfio threw his hands up in exasperation when Corvo darted forward to retaliate the hit. As they began to fight, Feodor picked up the discarded book and joined the older Whaler on one of the crates.

“Why do you bother?”

“Why do I bother,” Rulfio agreed, glowering as he accepted the book.

“Don’t fret, Rulf,” Arden called, catching Corvo’s arm and twisting at an angle that was uncomfortable to watch. “I’ll be careful with ‘im.”

“My arse, you will,” Rulfio muttered under his breath, opening back up to his page.

Feodor sat back and observed them while they fought. The pair were evenly matched; Corvo’s speed was well balanced with Arden’s brute strength. Rulfio continued to read by his side, but Feodor noticed his eyes flit up now and again, and the way he winced each time Arden landed a punch. And Arden wasn’t holding back, even considering Corvo’s still healing injuries, but Feodor knew that was more a kindness than anything; Corvo despised pity of any sort, and certainly wouldn’t have thanked Arden if he’d tried to take it easy on him. That, and Corvo was giving as good as he got. Both men, it appeared, were in dire need to work off their pent up energy.

A red shape prowled into view, distracting Feodor from the fight. He and Rulfio nodded in greeting to Daud.

“Have either of you seen–”

“He’s here,” Rulfio cut their leader off, jerking his head in Corvo’s direction as the pair of Whalers continued to brawl.

They hadn’t stopped when Daud entered, so Feodor assumed they were too absorbed in their tussle to notice. He would have asked how Rulfio knew who Daud would ask for, had he and Corvo not spent near every waking minute in each other’s company since the Whaler returned.

“Best not interrupt them, unless it’s life or death,” Rulfio advised sourly. “My wrist still twinges from the last time I tried to break up one of Arden’s little scuffles.”

Daud gave a dismissive grunt. Their leader leaned on the crate alongside them, stern gaze cemented on the fight. Feodor glimpsed him every now and again, and came to conclude that Daud’s attention was reserved for Corvo alone. Feodor watched as well; the way the man moved, anticipating each of his opponent’s strikes, actions sharp and honed from years of training. It was beautiful to watch, he had to admit.

Though skilled as Corvo was, Arden’s muscle was proving a formidable force to overcome, and Feodor could see lethargy seeping into the slighter Whaler’s movements. Arden's next swing managed to catch the side of Corvo's jaw, sending him toppling against the far wall. Feodor hissed quietly at the cut that had formed; a thin line of blood seeping from the split skin. Still, Corvo steadied himself and sprung back into action.

Admirable, Feodor credited his friend, even as he suspected the fight would end with Corvo’s defeat.

Sonething flared in his peripheral vision, and a faint green tendril - the glow of it unnoticeable if one wasn’t paying attention - jerked Arden’s arm sideways as he swung again. Arden missed his mark by centimetres. Rulfio snorted when Corvo lashed out a leg to trip the Whaler, sending him thumping onto the cracked floorboards beneath them.

Feodor glanced sidelong at Daud in time to catch his mark flicker beneath his glove.

“Well then,” Rulfio rose when it was clear the fight was finished, and he strode to loom over Arden. He offered a hand, but his smirk was merciless as he added, “Crushing defeat suits you, I must say.”

Arden swept a foot into the back of his legs, sending Rulfio crashing down beside him.

“Bastard.”

“Prick.”

Feodor sighed and moved to help them up from their collective heap on the floor. While they proceeded to dust themselves off, Feodor’s gaze sought Daud again, more out of curiosity than accident this time.

Their leader paid them no mind, having approached Corvo instead. Feodor tried to make out what was being discussed; he couldn’t discern the words, but he read their lips well enough.

“–you hurt?”

“It’s nothing, I asked to fight. My fault.”

“Still.” Daud reached for the cut near Corvo’s mouth, before seeming to think better of it. Feodor noticed the way his fist clenched slightly, gloved hand itching at his side. “Take an elixir once we’re upstairs.”

Corvo canted his jaw. “Need me for something?”

“Thomas wants the layout of the High Overseer’s Office, if you remember it.”

“The whole layout? Chester has most of it on record.”

“We need whichever section the High Artificer's in. The Overseer we intercepted is too nervous to tell us anything.”

“Alright. I remember it.”

Some silence passed, through which Daud made a gesture to Corvo’s mess of hair and said something that made the Whaler’s brows arch, embarrassed. Daud’s expression was soft, and though there was nothing that should have made Feodor look away, he felt inclined to. It was agonizingly intimate, the same way it had been outside the archive room, and in the kitchen at breakfast before that.

After Daud and Corvo departed for the office, Rulfio patted Arden’s shoulder. “I’d say you’re out of luck. Thursday’s looking pretty promising to me.”

“Fucking shit,” Arden cursed, deflating slightly. He ran a hand through his hair as he stared at the door. “I was sure it’d take ‘em longer.”

Feodor frowned between them, before his eyes widened and he stared at Rulfio. He felt something akin to betrayal. “No. Not you. Not you as well.”

Rulfio raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You’re–” Feodor motioned to the door. “Please, by the stars, don’t tell me you’re involved in this too.”

Rulfio at least had the decency to look guilty when he shrugged. “Seemed like an easy bit of coin.”

“Outsider take me.” Feodor threw up his hands and made for the exit. “I give up. Morons, all of you.”

“Morons? That’s rude– Wait, Fee, which day did you bet on, then?” Rulfio’s question followed Feodor as he stalked along the corridor, intent on finding solitude and a stiff drink.

~ ~ ~

“Wednsy– Wesnday–” Feodor clicked his fingers a few times, trying to recall the order of the letters. He gave one last, triumphant snap, “Wednesday!”

Hobson raised one bushy brow at him over the kitchen counter. “Come again.”

“Bloody Wednesday,” Feodor repeated. He swayed forward, almost nose to nose with their cook. “F’ everyone else thinks they’re so Void damned clever – _oh, Thursday, no, no, Friday, no, any time between Saturday and Sunday!_ – then I give up. I said I give up, so I bloody well give up.”

He slammed his glass down on the counter, giving Hobson a few unsteady pats on the cheek.

“A hundrer– A hundred coin, Hobs. A hundred coin.” He nodded, satisfied. “Wednesday.”

~ ~ ~

Finn pouted over the rim of his mug, as he and Feodor watched the other end of the kitchen. Corvo had strode in not a few minutes past, hair dishevelled as ever, glare in place. Yet it was obvious the instant he sat beside Daud.

Finn heaved a sigh. “I was sure it’d be Friday.”

“Serves you right for making a hasty bet.” Feodor savoured the petulant _hmph_  he received. “How much coin have you lost?”

“So much,” the Whaler grimaced.

“Chin up. You can’t be worse off than me,” Jordan said, ruffling the novice’s hair, cheery even in the face of defeat.

“Aye, nor me.” Arden didn’t seem too bothered either. Though he was pouring a healthy amount of brandy into his morning coffee. Liquid courage, Feodor imagined, for when Yuri and Vladko inevitably came to gloat. Between them, Arden owed over a hundred coin. “Least I ain’t Galia.”

Galia’s answering scowl was ruthless. “Sure, laugh away. Must be nice, not owing every Whaler in the whole shitting District,” she grumbled into her cup.

“I’m happy for them, though.” Finn received several bitter looks for his opinion. “Oh, come on, look at them. Haven’t seen the boss smile in...” He furrowed his brow, as though disturbed at the thought. “Ever, I don’t think.”

Despite their sullenness, the group peered in Daud’s direction. Feodor had to confess, the novice was right. He’d never seen Daud look at anyone like _that._

“Suppose it might have been worth the stupid bets,” Galia admitted. She nudged Feodor’s boot with her own. “Probably should’ve listened to our master tactician here, after all. Can always count on you to be the reasonable one, huh?”

“Yes, well,” Feodor mused as he swilled his drink around in the mug, attempting not to look too pleased with himself. “You can’t say I didn’t try and make you all see sense–”

A large coin pouch clattered down onto the table. Feodor clutched his mug of tea protectively and looked up at their scowling cook.

“A hundred coin,” Hobson ground out. “Wednesday. Lucky fucking guess, Fee. Remind me never to humour your drunk ass again.”

Feodor felt all eyes on him as he stared after Hobson’s retreating form. He felt his face heat up when he recalled his drunken wager in the kitchen.

He slowly and sheepishly collected the pouch and tied it to his belt.

“You have _got_ to be fucking with me.”

Feodor winced at Galia’s murderous tone. “Lucky guess?” he tried, only to cringe harder at the fire in the Whaler’s eyes.

“Do not tell me, Fee. Do not tell me, while we’re here with empty fucking pockets, that you have a hundred coin sitting pretty in that pouch because of _one lucky fucking guess_.”

“I, ah,” Feodor attempted a smile, but he could feel the others edging away from the danger zone that was his place at the table, inch by inch. “Only made the one bet, yes.”

For a woman who prided herself on her self-discipline, Feodor was impressed at the savagery with which Galia threw herself over the table towards him.

~ ~ ~

Corvo glanced to the far end of the kitchen. His eyes found Feodor desperately salvaging his drink, and Galia, wild eyed, being restrained by Jordan and Arden. “What’s going on?”

Daud followed his gaze. “First fight of the morning, by the looks of it.” He had the expression and posture of a man who’d experienced such things each morning for a long, long time.

“Leave them to it?”

“Leave them to it,” Daud affirmed, pointedly focused on his coffee as other Whalers passed them by to inspect the commotion. “They’ll grow tired of it soon enough.”

Something smashed. Someone cursed loudly. Daud merely blew some steam from his mug.

“How lucky we are to have you in charge,” Corvo said dryly. He leaned into Daud’s side, wondering if that was alright. It was foolish, really; he’d woken up that morning in the man’s arms, having defiled his bed for the second time in so many hours. The simple contact shouldn’t have made his heart beat so fast. “You don’t think you should at least investigate?”

Daud grunted, watching as more and more Whalers joined the fray. With his subordinates preoccupied, he allowed himself to rest his chin atop Corvo’s head. “I doubt whatever they’re so passionate about has anything to do with us,” he assured, pressing his lips against Corvo’s unruly hair. “Let them be for a while.”

Corvo didn’t argue. They watched as Galia snatched a fat, fallen coin pouch from the floor and bolted from the room, Feodor following quick on her tail.


End file.
